


A Sea of Ash and Frost

by MothrOfDragns



Series: A Legacy of Ice and Fire [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 16:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothrOfDragns/pseuds/MothrOfDragns
Summary: Story that follows the children of Daenerys and Jon. This entire thing is NOT CANON! I don't own anything, it is all the intellectual property of George R.R Martin, D.B Weiss, and David Benioff, as well as the HBO show writers.





	1. CHARACTER OVERVIEW

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My best friend Ari](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+best+friend+Ari).



A few character concepts and overviews before you begin the story. You don't have to look at these, and these are the characters as I've envisioned them, but feel free to disregard these and visualize them however you like.

**DAERYN TARGARYEN**

* * *

[CHARACTER CONCEPT](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0Bxa2yssa0XlKTkFaVnZQSDhpS28/view?usp=sharing)

Son and Heir of Daenerys Targaryen  
King of the Seven Kingdoms  
  
Daeryn Targaryen is the firstborn son of Daenerys Targaryen, Heir to her Kingdoms, and her mount, Drogon.  
  
Though bound by tradition to marry his sister, Rhaenesa, Daeryn took Aelora Corbray for his bride instead, citing his love for her as his motive. As of Book Three in the Throne Legacy series, she is pregnant with his child.  
  
Daeryn is fiercely protective of his younger siblings, often maintaining the belief that it is his responsibility to ensure their well being and protection. As King, Daeryn despises the game of politics taking place within his own court. He's much more concerned with putting his sword through the hearts of his enemies than negotiating with them.

 

 

**RHAENESA TARGARYEN**

* * *

 

[CHARACTER CONCEPT](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0Bxa2yssa0XlKalpKMTA3LWZHelk/view?usp=sharing)

Daughter of Daenerys Targaryen  
Queen Regent  
Hand of the King

 

Rhaenesa is the second child and only daughter of Daenerys Targaryen, born two years after her elder brother, Daeryn. Rhaenesa is the master and rider of the dragon Aeverys, who she has dubbed affectionately as Dreamweaver. Rhaenesa is fiercely intelligent, capable of altering her frame of mind to accommodate any situation she may come across. From a young age, Rhaenesa was trained by Jorah Mormont in several forms of archery and is now a master archer, capable of nailing targets from the back of her dragon, as well as from level ground and horseback. Rhaenesa is the only woman ever to occupy the role of Hand of the King in the history of the office.

Rhaenesa is involved in an intimate relationship with Wendyll Whitehill as of the first book of the series.

 

 

 

****AERION TARGARYEN** **

* * *

[CHARACTER CONCEPT](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1B_dPAhhmp-ITl9BoZZ4ybc3lEMXNmp0i/view?usp=sharing)

Son of Daenerys Targaryen  
Warden of the South

Aerion Targaryen is the third, and final child of Daenerys Targaryen, whose birth she did not survive. Aerion is homosexual, a fact which is known to his brother, Daeryn, and his sister Rhaenesa. He takes Prince Vorian Dayne as a lover and spends inordinate amounts of time in Sunspear as a result of this consortium.

 


	2. Prologue

The clouds soaring high in the sky were gray, and hung overcast above the soldiers as they trudged in their heavy armor through the thick layer of snow blanketing the ground. The winter which had seen the Targaryen Restoration, the Mad Queen Cersei Lannister, and the Great War, seemed to be slowly, but surely, retreating back to the far North where it belonged.

“Why must  _ we  _ be the ones to hunt for rest of those ungrateful bastards?” Jondan whined.

“Perhaps the better question is why must you bitch about it? Does it, in your debilitated mind, better your predicament? Any of our predicaments?” Ser Garwin Raugh spat the words at his young squire, concealing the fact that he too was irked at the task given them by Lord Borrell.

One would assume that Lordsport and its citizens would be capable of sewing their own fields, baking their own bread, and hunting their own deer, yet the lazy curs refused to leave the safety of their hovels amidst the brisk snows gifted them by the winter season.

“Go now, my trusted Knight.” Borrell had said. “Serve your people. I trust the winds of winter shan’t frighten a man of such high caliber. Take a squadron of men and feed the frightened peasants.”

“Yes, m’lord.” He’d said, hiding his discontent for the pudgy-faced highborn. Hunting was not a Knight’s work. A child with a decent bow and rudimentary instruction could perform the task adequately.

“Forgive me, Ser,” Jondan said, his tone cautioned and correct. His red hair fell precariously over his face, prompting him to bring his hand upwards and sweep it from his field of view several times. “It is not my place to question our orders.”

“Thank the Gods, at least I’ve managed to teach you that,” Raugh said. “Do us all a favor, lad, don’t open your mouth the rest of the way, yeah?”

Silence once again settled upon the forest, save the constant crunching of the snows beneath their boots, the sounds of their armor clinking and clattering as they stepped, and the chattering teeth of the summer-born boys, never before having experienced winter to such a degree.

“This is the true North.” The older men taunted with their accents. “Ye lot were bred for this. For the bone-chillin’ cold and the never endin’ snow. Quit with your damn chitterin’ n’ chatterin’ ‘fore I pull your teeth loose and knock your swollen heads together.”

The renewed silence, and crunches, and clinking, and clanking continued intermittently over the next few hours as the men swept through the forest in search of decent game.

Finding nothing, they continue to travel deeper, and deeper into the frostbitten forest, the ominous presence within being clearly oblivious to them.

Had they known what was truly lurking in the forests outside of Lordsport, they’d have run to their mothers crying to suckle at their breasts. Foolish bastards. Poor, foolish bastards.

“This ain’t right,” Jondan says finally.

“What’d I--”

“Look.”

He indicates towards the charred carcass of a woodland deer. It’s naked, utterly cleansed by fire. It looks as though the animal’s eyes melted in their sockets as it died.

“What the hell,” Raugh says. His hand gravitates steadily towards the sword at his hip, and he wraps his fingers around the hilt, signifying his readiness for combat.

“What’s done this?” A man asked aloud.

“Gods if I know.” Another man answered.

“Quiet you damnable fools,” Raugh said.

His ears detect a low guttural rumbling of sorts, echoing throughout the trees.

And before any of them can flee, or scream, or even pray to the Gods above, a mighty crimson flame shoots through the trees, tearing the forest asunder and roasting the men alive. They scream and writhe under the evil heat, cursing themselves, their lord, their gods amidst the horrid heat. A frightening screech is heard, as the flame once again soars through the woods, stripping the trees of their leaves.

The men dead, and the forest in smolders, a mighty winged snake takes flight, the wind below his wings extinguishing the flames. He releases a screech which seems to shatter the sky around him. He lands, spitting his flames about their corpses, cooking their flesh under his fire. Skulking carefully over to the corpses, he nudges them and nibbles at a few extremities.

Seemingly uninterested, he reers up on his hind legs, spreading his wings and leaping into the sky, the wings folding as he catches the wind under them.

Behind him, he leaves one last screech, and then vanishes above the clouds.

 


	3. Daeryn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SOUNDTRACK:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oN711viMMe8
> 
> As always, it's recommended you listen along with the song as you read for a better experience. I try to pick songs from the show that go best with the mood. Please enjoy!

Daeryn Targaryen was born to a throne which, technically, no longer existed. Buried under a veritable mountain of ice and fire somewhere beneath the rubble of the Red Keep in King’s Landing.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion calls from the doorway. “I do believe it’s time.”

He’d become rather wrinkled in his old age, features dragged and tired, a gray beard extending to his feet, wiping the floors when he walked. Yet he’d still managed, somehow, to retain the core components of his personality. His cocky, but skillfully measured, attitude, his aptitude for sarcasm, and, perhaps most importantly, his lethal cunning and wit.

“Is it?” Daeryn asks, gazing at his warped reflection in the mirror. He’d done his best to hide the rampant feeling of terror rising within him. As a boy, he’d wanted nothing more than to see this day. The day upon which he would finally be acknowledged by his birthright when he would inherit the power to carry on his mother’s legacy.

The day when he would rule the Seven Kingdoms.

“Well, the court has gathered, as have the peasants in the streets. The most prominent lords and ladies in Westeros have come to honor you.”

“Time it is, then,” Daeryn said, turning to face the short man. “Rhaenesa?”

“I assume your sister is just as eager to see you sit the throne as anyone else.”

He sighed, anxious at the many things which could go wrong on this, the most important day of his life.

“When you were a boy,” Tyrion says, “Your mother would sit you and your sister on her lap and reminisce her coronation with the both of you. A glorious day that was, when they rested that crown upon her head.”

“My mother’s dead.” Daeryn reminds him needlessly.

“That she is.” Tyrion sighs. “And you are here, on the day of your coronation, locked away in your chambers. I wonder what she’d have to say about that.”

Daenerys had been a loving, yet stern parent to her firstborn children, working diligently to instill the values of justice and caring into their hearts. A woman who believed so fervently that she’d be barren the rest of her life, unable to carry the great dynasty she’d inherited, blessed by the Gods to bring a pair of beautiful twins into the world.

“She’d say that dragons don’t cower. That dragons are predators, and that cowardliness is a behavior for prey. And then she’d remind me, as she has since I was old enough to need reminding, that I am a dragon. The Winter Dragon.”

“That sounds about right,” Tyrion says nodding.

With a last sigh, Daeryn allows himself to be escorted from the Lord’s Chambers, past Aegon’s Garden, by the Stone Drum and the Sea Dragon Tower, to the Great Hall, where the mobs of peasants and nobles alike were eagerly awaiting his arrival. They shouted as he approached, boxed in by knights of the Kingsguard. He took no shame in relishing their shouts and calls of adoration, after all, it was the right of a proper king to bask in the approval of his people, and that is exactly what Daeryn would be. A good, proper king.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was a large complex, built in the shape of a massive dragon resting on its belly, doors situated in its stone mouth. As a child, Daeryn and his sister had attended several large events hosted by his mother in the Great Hall. Often times, there were great feasts and entertainment consisting of singing, acting, and dancing. He considered these some of the fonder among his memories.

As the doors swung open, Daeryn felt as though he were literally climbing into the mouth of a dragon, praying to all Seven Gods that the beast wouldn’t decide to snap its jaw shut and swallow him like a honey cake. The crowd quiets as he makes his way to the throne, save the fascinated murmurs of highborn lords and ladies. He strolls at a snail's pace as the crowd rearranges itself to allow him and his entourage through, eyes pasted to his prize. The throne situated in the Great Hall would have to do, considering the Iron Throne was destroyed during the Battle of King’s Landing.

He’d often been told horror stories of the Night’s King riding o’er the rooftops atop his dead dragon mount, raining blue fire upon the citizens, only to have them rise later as soldiers in a vast undead army. An army defeated in a war which claimed the life of his father.

They called him Jon Snow, the White Wolf, bastard son of Ned Stark, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before becoming Lord of Winterfell and, however brief his reign, King of the Seven Kingdoms.

A few feet from the throne, the Kingsguard disperse along the borders of the crowd, swords at the ready position. As there’d been no threats, no challenges or opposing claims to the throne, there was no expectation of trouble.

That being said, there was also no expectation for the Mad Queen to obliterate the Sept of Baelor in a massive detonation of wildfire, a standing example of just how utterly unpredictable the Game of Life can be.

“Daeryn, of House Targaryen, Blood of Old Valyria, Son of the Dragon Queen Daenerys, and the White Wolf Aegon, Born of the Last Winter, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.” The High Septon wields the crown above Daeryn’s silver hair. The crown, which had been worn by his mother during her reclamation of the Seven Kingdoms, is wrought in the shape of the three-headed which adorns the sigil of House Targaryen. The coils which run along its silver rims are golden yellow, the wings carved of silver, and each of the heads of the dragon carved from a different material, reminiscent of the three brought with her to retake the Kingdoms.

Drogon is carved of onyx, dark as the midnight sky, whereas Rhaegal is of viridescent jade. Viserion is made of ivory, white as freshly fallen snow.

Daeryn had never truly realized how many titles he was claimant to until they’d all been listed out before him. They made him nervous. Each was an entirely new realm of pressure and responsibility to live up to. It was as though, with each mantle he gained, the world buried him further beneath a grave of ashes and smolder.

“May the Father grant him a penchant for justice and clarity in ruling. May the Mother grant him a merciful heart towards those deserving. May the Warrior grant him the strength to crush his enemies underfoot. May the Smith grant him the craftsmanship, so that he may build upon what he has been given, and leave it better than he found it. May the Maiden grant him a beautiful wife with whom he may carry on the glorious dynasty he has inherited. May the Crone grant him the wisdom so coveted in righteous kings. And may the Stranger take him from this world when his reign is complete so that another might bear the tremendous burden placed upon him.”

The crown slips around his short silver hair, resting itself neatly upon his head as it settles. The High Septon steps aside, allowing Daeryn to rise. With each step taken the situation becomes increasingly lucid.

It isn’t a dream.

It isn’t a nightmare.

It’s a new reality, it’s what he was raised for.

The Throne itself is uncomfortable, crafted from stone with a strong regard for aesthetic appeal, but virtually none for the actual comfort of the monarch.

“Long may he reign,” Tyrion says.

The crowd follows suit, repeating the words in near perfect unison.

_ Long may he reign, long may he reign, long may he reign. _


	4. Rhaenesa

The whispers seem to begin immediately. Peasants, commoners, merchants and nobles alike, all simultaneously partaking in a veritable orgy of gossip and slander. Perhaps it’s just a tradition of court, a sort of hazing ritual. Every new king has to endure the tarnishing of his name, the ousting of his deepest darkest secrets.

Good. A necessary evil. By the time the process was done, the rest of the Realm would know what she already did.

Daeryn had no secrets. None yet, at least. The worst they could do was to conjure up wild and half-assed tales of indecency and wrongdoing, for which they hadn’t even an inkling of substantial evidence.

Rhaenesa couldn’t help but notice how proper her brother looked upon the chair. That’s really what it was, a chair. The power came, not from the chair, or the crown, but from the force one could exhibit to maintain the both of them. No one would dare challenge Daeryn’s ascension to the throne. Not while he had the combined forces of the North, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the Dothraki Khalasar behind him.

Not while the pits of Dragonstone once again played host to the mythical beasts for which the island had been named.

“Thank you, High Septon.” Daeryn said, quieting the room. “You honor me beyond words. If it please the court, I’d like to begin with the appointment of the Small Council immediately. I see no need to waste time in grandeur and splendor when the tedious business can be settled here and now.”

_ A good ruler is efficient.  _ She remembered Tyrion saying.  _ If you see that the way is clear do not hesitate for your enemies to arrive at the same conclusion. _

“Tyrion, of House Lannister.” He calls from the throne. “I name you Hand of the King, as you were to my mother.”

This is expected. Who better to fill the role than the most experienced and cunning politician the Realm currently had to offer.

“To rule in my stead, should I ever be incapable of performing my duties to the benefit of the people.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” Tyrion says. “I am glad I won’t be having to surrender the badge anytime soon. I’ll admit to having become rather attached to it.

The crowd offers a few laughs at the dwarf’s light hearted comedy, but quiets second later in anticipation of the next nomination.

“Maester Samwell Tarly.”

The last surviving lord born of Tarly blood is called to the foot of the throne. Though having grown immensely in terms of wisdom and skill set over the years, Sam has maintained his hearty girth and chubby stature. He now wears the chain of a Maester, decorated with several extravagant links and collars.

“Your Grace.” He says, kneeling.

“Yours was perhaps my father’s most valued counsel. I would name you Grand Maester and bestow upon you the royal link.”

Expected as well. During the Great War, it was in fact Samwell Tarly who’d combed through the numerous historical records at the Citadel (a feat accomplished by few maesters throughout the history of the Kingdoms) to find the dragonglass hidden beneath the Keep. Dragonglass which proved invaluable in the fight against Night’s King and his legions of undead warriors.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” He says, ascending the steps and taking his place beside the throne.

“Lady Sansa Stark.”

Aunt Sansa approached the throne, garbed in a glorious gown comprised of teal-white silks. Her auburn hair is worn in its natural stature, flowing openly towards the ceramic tiles flooring the Great Hall. She kneeled at the foot of the steps ascending to the throne.

“Your Grace.” The red-headed woman addresses.

“Lady Sansa, your suffering at the hands of the Lannisters in King’s Landing, then at the hands of the Boltons of Winterfell… you have endured more hardship than perhaps anyone here today.” Daeryn says. “In honor of my grandfather, Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you Wardeness of the North.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She says. “I do humbly accept the nomination.”

Technically speaking, she isn’t their aunt. Their father was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, yet he was raised in Winterfell by Eddard Stark, who as it turns out was his uncle. Lord Stark was, in turn, beheaded at the order of Joffrey Baratheon, the Brat King. It’s said that he made Sansa watch as he gave the order for Ilyn Payne to take Stark’s head.

By that same logic, Eddard Stark wasn’t their grandfather by blood, but the title would rather belong to Rhaegar Targaryen.

"As for the office of Warden of the South, I nominate my half-brother Aerion. He will rule in my stead, from Sunspear to Dragonstone, enforcing my will with unwavering efficiency."

Rhaenesa scanned the dense crowd for any sign of her brother, finding him by his uniquely unkempt silver hair. The crowd parted to allow him passage, and he made his way to the steps of the podium. His expression shifted as he walked, from aggressively stoic, to passively pleased. She knew it was fake. Aerion was perhaps one of the greatest actors she'd ever known. He'd feign any emotion that suited him, anything that served to better his image. A remarkable talent, yet one that she needn't envy. After all, nearly everything Aerion knew about faces, he'd learned from his older sister. Daeryn rose from the throne, looking down at Aerion and smiling.

"Your Grace," Aerion said, kneeling. "I... accept the nomination."

It didn't take a maester to see through Aerion's ploys. His facade, while impressive, served only to betray his innermost thoughts in her eyes. She knew exactly what position he'd wanted to be nominated. Warden of the West, with authority over cities like Lannisport, and Horn Hill. But Daeryn had different ideas as to Aerion's place in his kingdom. Rhaenesa had always seen through the falsehoods Daeryn fed his younger brother. He hated him. He blamed him for the death of their mother, he blamed him for tearing his life asunder. She was sure if, given proper ammunition, he'd find some way to blame Aerion for the death of their father, which had occurred near nine months before they were even born.

He'd bullied him viciously when they were children, shoving him, beating him with wooden sticks, allowing Belghaerys to bear his vicious teeth at him, and all Aerion would do is cry.

He descends the stairs, finding his way through the crowd and exiting the Great Hall through the teeth of the dragon.

The rest of the nominations went exactly as Rhaenesa and Tyrion had planned them nearly two weeks before. Robin Arryn for Warden of the East, Jamie Lannister for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Jorah Mormont for Principle Advisor.

If Daeryn's coronation was any indication as to the rest of his reign, it would be long and peaceful, with Rhaenesa overseeing his Court, his advisors, and his council, while Daeryn sat at the head of armies where he'd always belonged, and Aerion preoccupied, bogged down with too many responsibilities to be of any nuisance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me your best guesses for Daenerys' Gifts in the comments below. I left two hints in this chapter, so see if you can spot them!


	5. Aerion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First close up glimpse at Aerion, and his fucked up impression of the world! Hope you all enjoy.

“Warden of the South.” Aerion muttered to himself. Daeryn’s coronation had been a long awaited affair, it’s announcement having occurred nearly a month in advance -- providing ample time for lords and ladies from the North to make their way down south for the events.

Yet, despite the drastic amount of time he’d had to work with, Daeryn had fully neglected to find a role suitable for Aerion. As a result, Aerion was largely certain that, not having any real candidates for Warden of the South, he’d plucked the title from his pocket and handed it to him in attempt to keep him docile.

And Aerion wasn’t having it.

The titled repeated itself over and over in his head.

_ Warden of the South. _

Why not the North? The North was the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, large enough, in fact, to fit all the other six within its borders and still have room left for another.

Why not the West? Casterly Rock and Lannisport are center to the largest operation of gold mining in the Seven Kingdoms. People often wonder what made Tywin Lannister so powerful. Not his cunning, nor his skill with a blade, though those two factors likely didn’t hurt. It was his money, the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, whose wealth he owed wholly to the material resources to be found in the West.

Why not the East? King’s Landing and Dragonstone, the Eyrie, all coveted locations with much to offer any lord.

But no, the gods had determined that he would not be so lucky. Instead, his brother had shafted him the South, a worthless sandblasted territory of vipers and Dornishmen. It wasn’t so much that he hadn’t any interest in Dorne, after all, it was such a fascinating land to behold, but rather that he’d been offered the territory out of Daeryn’s neglect to give him any thought.

Rhaenesa, on the other hand, she’d been crowned Queen Regent, a title with numerous beneficial authorities and implications.

And he’d been shipped off to Dorne.

“Your Grace.” Ser Garland said as Aerion approached. “Your escort is ready to depart at your command, whenever you see fit.”

“Thank you, Ser Garland.” Aerion said, a falsified smile spread across his lips. “I won’t be long. Go ahead and get underway.”

Ser Horace Garland had been admitted to the Kingsguard at the age of twenty-two, after having demonstrated substantial skill with a longsword. Raised in Fleabottom, the former slums of King’s Landing, his parents had roasted alive amidst the cerulean flames of the Doom.

Aerion’s wet nurse, Alisyn of Lys, had often told him horror stories about that day. When Night’s King came, mounted atop a winged undead beast, spewing columns of icy blue flame down upon the people as they ran in hopeless attempt to escape their inevitable demise. What’s worse, death hadn’t been the end for those poor souls. They’d risen again hours later, unwilling soldiers within an army of undead slaves.

“Your mother fought bravely during the Great War.” She’d recalled. “Riding on the back of the Winged Shadow, Aegon, seventh of his name, at her side.”

He hated that name. Aegon. Not his father, no. Daeryn and Rhaenesa’s father. They were the trueborn heirs to the Kingdoms, theirs was the blood of the dragon, pure and whole.

Aerion was an unwanted bastard, his blood sullied and diluted by that of his anonymous father, whose identity was unknown to this day, the last secret of the Dragon Queen, she took to her grave.

Even his half-siblings hated him. They’d never said it aloud, but he knew. They hated him for killing their mother. They hated him for sullying the name Targaryen. They hated him because he existed.

He ran his fingers grimly through his wispy silver hair, sighing as he made his way to the Pits of Dragonstone.

As he drew closer, their screeches became more audible as they scraped by his ears. It is said that dragons never sleep. They may rest, curling themselves in their wings and shutting their reptilian eyes, but they never sleep. Always aware of what’s happening about their surroundings. Never surprised.

They eyed him as he approached, both of them, skeptically taking in his every movement.

The largest was Belghaerys, whom Daeryn had claimed for his personal mount without haste. His scales were murky green, reminiscent of the color of swamp water, with streaks of blood red running through his ruffling mane. In comparison to the original three dragons, which his mother had brought to Westeros to aide her conquest, they were tiny.

The second was Aeverys, affectionately dubbed Dreamweaver by his half-sister Rhaenesa. For a she-dragon, most of whom were typically much smaller in size than their male counterparts, she was rather large, chasing closely behind Belghaerys. Her scales, white as winter’s heaviest snows. If you looked closely, you might see the golden streaks running through them. Her temperament was rather docile compared to that of Belghaerys, who was known throughout the Kingdoms for a fiery temper.

Aerion, being only half a true Targaryen, was born to no dragon. He should never have been born in the first place. He was a mistake, and a costly one, the mistake that cost Daenerys Targaryen her life.

His siblings had lorded it over him all his life, like an executioners blade levitating over his next, just waiting to sever it at the nape. He remembers back to when he was little, his fourth name day DC

“Warden of the South.” Aerion muttered to himself. Daeryn’s coronation had been a long awaited affair, it’s announcement having occurred nearly a month in advance -- providing ample time for lords and ladies from the North to make their way down south for the events.

Yet, despite the drastic amount of time he’d had to work with, Daeryn had fully neglected to find a role suitable for Aerion. As a result, Aerion was largely certain that, not having any real candidates for Warden of the South, he’d plucked the title from his pocket and handed it to him in attempt to keep him docile.

And Aerion wasn’t having it.

The titled repeated itself over and over in his head.

_ Warden of the South. _

Why not the North? The North was the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, large enough, in fact, to fit all the other six within its borders and still have room left for another.

Why not the West? Casterly Rock and Lannisport are center to the largest operation of gold mining in the Seven Kingdoms. People often wonder what made Tywin Lannister so powerful. Not his cunning, nor his skill with a blade, though those two factors likely didn’t hurt. It was his money, the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, whose wealth he owed wholly to the material resources to be found in the West.

Why not the East? King’s Landing and Dragonstone, the Eyrie, all coveted locations with much to offer any lord.

But no, the gods had determined that he would not be so lucky. Instead, his brother had shafted him the South, a worthless sandblasted territory of vipers and Dornishmen. It wasn’t so much that he hadn’t any interest in Dorne, after all, it was such a fascinating land to behold, but rather that he’d been offered the territory out of Daeryn’s neglect to give him any thought.

Rhaenesa, on the other hand, she’d been crowned Queen Regent, a title with numerous beneficial authorities and implications.

And he’d been shipped off to Dorne.

“Your Grace.” Ser Garland said as Aerion approached. “Your escort is ready to depart at your command, whenever you see fit.”

“Thank you, Ser Garland.” Aerion said, a falsified smile spread across his lips. “I won’t be long. Go ahead and get underway.”

Ser Horace Garland had been admitted to the Kingsguard at the age of twenty-two, after having demonstrated substantial skill with a longsword. Raised in Fleabottom, the former slums of King’s Landing, his parents had roasted alive amidst the cerulean flames of the Doom.

Aerion’s wet nurse, Alisyn of Lys, had often told him horror stories about that day. When Night’s King came, mounted atop a winged undead beast, spewing columns of icy blue flame down upon the people as they ran in hopeless attempt to escape their inevitable demise. What’s worse, death hadn’t been the end for those poor souls. They’d risen again hours later, unwilling soldiers within an army of undead slaves.

“Your mother fought bravely during the Great War.” She’d recalled. “Riding on the back of the Winged Shadow, Aegon, seventh of his name, at her side.”

He hated that name. Aegon. Not his father, no. Daeryn and Rhaenesa’s father. They were the trueborn heirs to the Kingdoms, theirs was the blood of the dragon, pure and whole.

Aerion was an unwanted bastard, his blood sullied and diluted by that of his anonymous father, whose identity was unknown to this day, the last secret of the Dragon Queen, she took to her grave.

Even his half-siblings hated him. They’d never said it aloud, but he knew. They hated him for killing their mother. They hated him for sullying the name Targaryen. They hated him because he existed.

He ran his fingers grimly through his wispy silver hair, sighing as he made his way to the Pits of Dragonstone.

As he drew closer, their screeches became more audible as they scraped by his ears. It is said that dragons never sleep. They may rest, curling themselves in their wings and shutting their reptilian eyes, but they never sleep. Always aware of what’s happening about their surroundings. Never surprised.

They eyed him as he approached, both of them, skeptically taking in his every movement.

The largest was Belghaerys, whom Daeryn had claimed for his personal mount without haste. His scales were murky green, reminiscent of the color of swamp water, with streaks of blood red running through his ruffling mane. In comparison to the original three dragons, which his mother had brought to Westeros to aide her conquest, they were tiny.

The second was Aeverys, affectionately dubbed Dreamweaver by his half-sister Rhaenesa. For a she-dragon, most of whom were typically much smaller in size than their male counterparts, she was rather large, chasing closely behind Belghaerys. Her scales, white as winter’s heaviest snows. If you looked closely, you might see the golden streaks running through them. Her temperament was rather docile compared to that of Belghaerys, who was known throughout the Kingdoms for a fiery temper. 

Aerion, being only half a true Targaryen, was born to no dragon. He should never have been born in the first place. He was a mistake, and a costly one, the mistake that cost Daenerys Targaryen her life. Another word contemptuous word, mistake. A brand he'd worn all his life, as though it were and executioners hovering blade, balanced above his neck, ready and waiting to slice it at the nape.

Sighing, he found his way from the Dragon Pits, to the stables, finding his mare Dalta. Named for a God out in the Shadowlands of Asshai. Her mane is long and flowing in in white hair, as is the rest of her fur. She whinnies happily as Aerion approaches.

“Hey there, girl.” He smiles at her.

Saddled and ready, he merely has to mount her back and tug at the reins. She responds perfectly to his every whim, riding with nearly twice the speed of an average horse her age.

In little more than fifteen minutes, he’s at his ship, meeting the crew. It’s called Galeflighter, captained by a Braavosi man named Syriel.

They’re at sail nearly ten minutes later, Aerion watching Dragonstone, his home, his world, disappear beyond the horizon. And yet, against his nature, he soon finds himself looking forward towards the setting sun which paints the sky with vibrant shades of rose and violet, towards a new home in Dorne which brings with it new people, new experiences, and perhaps, though Aerion’s never been much of an explorer, new adventures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of the dragons in the comments, as they're going to become really important really soon as the story starts to take off. I'm especially interested in what you think of the names.


	6. Aerion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short but astute insight into Aerion's mind. A Targaryen without a dragon is a sad thing to see, but a Targaryen without a dragon or a family is hearbreaking.

Aerion always hated the open water. Anything could happen at sea, there were legends of great krakens and leviathans, sea dragons and naggas, and disqualifying all of those, there were still ironborn raiders to worry about. For the majority of the trip, he’d decided, he’d remain below deck, reading up on Dornish history and culture in the books he’d borrowed from Maester Tarnoll’s library. He curls up on the featherbed, flipping through page after page of information, some of which he has no issue comprehending, and some which, if given even an inkling of rational thought, serve to boggle his mind completely and utterly.

Earlier, the captain had told him the trip would take roughly two days and a night depending on the sea’s temperament, which had so far been rather decent. Aerion, who’d never found himself to be very religious, found himself praying to all seven of the church that he not be caught in a storm. The storms of the narrow sea, were notoriously violent, especially in Shipbreaker Bay, which just happened to lay directly in their path of travel.

Aerion, always having been mathematically acclimated, figured that spending roughly ten minutes praying to each of the Seven Gods every day of his journey would average out to a 75% chance of successful travel.

He dedicated another five minutes to cursing Daeryn’s name in near silence, for having sent him out to sea in the first place to rule over some sandblasted shithole in his name,  _ his  _ name. As though Aerion’s name wasn’t enough to rule by…

Daeryn Targaryen, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men. Protector of the Realm, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And Aerion, his brother, who killed their mother coming into the world, and succeeded in garnering the sheer hatred of his siblings in doing so.

All his life, Aerion had sworn that, if through some coincidence, he was given the opportunity to alter the past, he’d wish himself out of the present, and leave everyone to be with their lives.

But for the time being, he was here.

Sighing, he rolled over in the featherbed, and let the waves of the sea lull him into a restless image of sleep.


	7. Daeryn & Rhaenesa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good brother-sister moment, and some sweetwine. Enjoy.

He stood in the Chamber of the Painted Table, examining the dusty relic. It’d been used first by his ancestor Aegon, to plan his takeover of the Seven Kingdoms, and again, nearly three-hundred years later, by his mother, to plot her reclamation of those very same kingdoms. Two glorious righteous monarchs, with causes and armies, with passion and dragons, and while he had sizeable armies and two young dragons, he had no cause which to be passionate about.

“How does it feel?” Rhaenesa asks, standing in the doorframe. She wears a midnight black gown with long sleeves. The lace along the back is floral, and crimson embellishment. Above her breasts, the sigil of their house is embroidered in crimson. Daeryn had decided to alter it on their banners, the same as it was on his crown. The heads of his mother’s dragons forever embroidered and flying in the summer’s breeze.

“Strange.” Was all Daeryn had to say. “I’d thought… I don’t know, I’d thought it’d feel glorious. I’ve been looking forward to this my whole life, Rhae, it’s what I was raised for.”

“What  _ we  _ were raised for.” She corrected him. “I was there, right beside you. Studying in the Windwyrm, practicing in Aegon’s Garden.”

“You don’t wear the crown. You don’t feel the pressure. It’s like they’re just waiting for me to… to… I don’t know, to scum up so they can settle in like vultures and gnarl my corpse.”

“You know what I’ve been asking myself lately?” He turns to face her, leaning against the Painted Table.”

“No clue.”

“What would Mother do?”

He scoffed at the question.

“Mother would have no issue with this. She’d take the lords by their cocks and tell them exactly how affairs would be conducted, and those who dared to dissent would find themselves under her flames.”

“Sounds look a good place to start then, don’t you think?”

“I’m not our mother, Rhaenesa.” Daeryn informs her.

“I know, but we’re all that’s left of her. All that’s left of her house and her legacy. Her last dragons.”

“We aren’t the  _ last  _ dragons.”

“True.”

“So then… where do we go from here?”

He smiles at the table.

“Up. We rebuild. We’ve the opportunity to do better than our ancestors did. To build a foundation that will last centuries after we’re gone to the crypts”

He nods to her dress, finally meeting her gaze. “Who did the stitching?”

“Aunt Sansa.” She says. “I had input on the design.”

“It’s nice.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, though they feel more like eons amidst the eerie mood of the room. The burden placed upon them had never been more apparent. For the longest time it hadn’t been real, merely a problem for a distant future, something they had their whole lives to prepare for.

“You didn’t have to.” She sighs, taking a seat at the head of the table.

“Have to what?”

“Send him away. To Dorne.”

“Don’t tell me you feel bad for him. Warden of the South is an honorable office.”

“The honor of the office is diminished when you use it as a way to force someone out of your life. He’ll remember this, Daeryn.”

“What of his memories? He’s a bastard, a mistake. He was never supposed to have been here in the first place. It’s a courtesy I don’t take his head.”

“He’s your brother.”

“Half-brother. Diminishes the stain on our bloodline.”

She sighs, realizing she won’t be getting to him this way. The silence welcomes itself back into the room as she rises and gaits to the winetable. She removes two goblets from the cabinet, filling them to their brims and depositing them to the table.

“One day you’ll need him.” She says, taking a swig from her glass. “And then his memories will become problematic. I try to stick a few good ones in there. After all, if, Gods forbid, if something should happen to you, he’s our last hope.”

Daeryn shakes his head. “No, I’d leave them to you. It’d be my last decree, on my deathbed. ‘I, Daeryn Targaryen, rubbish titles and responsibilities, do hereby name my sister, Rhaenesa Targaryen Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Done.”

“That wouldn’t help much. They’d laugh at you.”

“They wouldn’t laugh at you.” He takes a massive gulp from the goblet, hoping to calm his nerves with the sweetwine. “I wonder what they’d call you. Mother was the Dragon Queen, the Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons. Maybe they’d call you… the She Dragon.”

“I suppose it’s fitting, isn’t it?” She confesses. “It wouldn’t be the worst possibility.”

They each take varying swigs from their glasses, exchanging glances and memories.

“Do you remember,” Rhaenesa begins, “When mother would read to us about the Dance.”

“The least boring of the tales she’d tell us.”

“Did she ever tell you the story of Rhaenyra, my namesake?”

“Probably, but I can’t for the Mother remember it.”

“Rhaenyra was the rightful heir, the eldest, and the one her father had wanted to rule. Yet her brother, Aegon, was greedy and gluttonous.”

“Do we have to hear the whole story over? I’m rather drunk for this.”

“Long story short, Rhaenyra died a terrible death at the hands of her brother, her children were raped, castrated and murdered, and she was eaten alive by her brother’s dragon Sunfyre.”

“Why in fucks would mother name you after her.”

“Apparently the suffix ‘esa’ means hope in Merreenese. She told me her hope was for me to become a great queen, to stand by your side and rule from the shadows.”

“I wonder what mother would say if she’d lived to see us today.” Daeryn inquires, his words carry a bit of a slur, as by this point he’s downed two full goblets of ale.

“I think…” Rhaenesa began, pressing her fingers to her temples. “I think she’d say we’re doing our best… and that’s all good rulers can strive to do.”

And so the siblings spent the evening drinking and reminiscing, and dreading the day to come.


End file.
